Wet Paint
by Tanya Lilac
Summary: Surrender was sweeter than ice cream, and Ichigo found out that the girl who liked to draw Chappy and Friends in his books was a little less innocent than he'd thought. IchiRuki. Lime-esque. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **_Bleach _and its characters do not belong to me, nor am I making profit from writing fanfiction. Yay.

**Wet Paint**

By Tanya Lilac

As Rukia eavesdropped (as per usual) on the very loud discussion and allocation of duties amongst the Kurosaki family down stairs, she wondered what was happening. She glanced at the calendar – it wasn't close to the seventeenth of June; far from it, actually... something was going on, and she was determined to find out (and maybe get involved).

Ichigo entered the room about ten minutes later and arched an eyebrow at the shinigami, who was spinning herself around on his chair. She had apparently given up on doing homework, and had started drawing rabbits in his workbook.

"I'm not sure our teacher would be eager to hear the explanation behind why I have poor drawings of woodland monsters in my book," he said sarcastically as he snatched the book off his desk and sat on his bed. His proactive thinking was sadly rendered useless as she smacked him with his bag.

He tried to erase her "artwork", but to no avail. "You could have at least drawn in pencil!"

Rukia sighed. "It changes the way that the drawing _looks, _Ichigo! It has to be drawn in pen to keep the lines defined and –"

She stopped as Ichigo pushed the chair away from the desk and began to stow everything on his desk into his drawers. Rukia watched, fascinated as ever at his strange need to keep his desk tidy, and everything in its place.

"What's happening? Everyone sounded very enthusiastic about something downstairs, and your father was planning an activity." Rukia peered over Ichigo's shoulder to see what he was doing, and used her feet to push against the chair, spinning around in a slow circle.

Ichigo sighed and switched off his desk lamp before reclining on the bed, flipping through a novel they'd been asked to read for their literature class. "We're painting the house. Again."

"You should paint your room a different colour!" she said enthusiastically, jumping lightly off the chair. She clasped her hands behind her back and turned to face the wardrobe door. "Also, your closet could do with some paint, I was thinking pomegranate would be nice-"

"Rukia," Ichigo said tiredly, and turned to face her, all the while wondering why she had such an awed expression upon her face. "I am not painting the inside of my wardrobe."

She turned her head to glance at him, catching the strain in his voice. "Is something wrong?"

"Why should there be something wrong?" he retorted. "I just don't think that it's necessary. We are getting the rest of the clinic painted, as well. It's going to be a big job."

"So why is it so hard to do this extra bit?" She opened the door to demonstrate her point. "I can do it on my own!"

Ichigo ran a hand through his hair and stood with a sigh before he closed the distance between them. It was not the time for an argument, and he was ready to just switch off the lights and mull over his thoughts (which he'd been doing quite nicely before Yuzu had called him downstairs to the kitchen to discuss their "plan of action"). Rukia stared up into his eyes, wondering what secrets they held. She'd never really believed that the eyes were the window to the soul – she had, after all, grown up in Soul Society. People didn't need windows to see souls – they just needed eyes. It was such a typical, human notion... What she saw now, half hidden by his trademark frown, was Ichigo's troubled mind. Tangled with threads of stubbornness (but she could see that in the lines of his body) and determination, she knew he wouldn't give her a straight answer, and simply sighed and leaned on the frame of the wardrobe, her eyes sliding off his and resting on the view of the moon outside his window.

She licked her lips subconsciously as she felt his body shift towards hers. She knew he'd noticed – he took a deep, sudden breath and was suddenly unable to tear his gaze away from her mouth, his eyes flickering from her violet eyes to her lips. Rukia lifted her head and her eyes were half lidded as he leaned in, the smell of his clean skin washing over her (they used the same thing, but for whatever reason, the soap just smelt _better_ on him). She could feel his breaths fanning against her cheek and a familiar feeling of warmth began to spread through her body. It was completely illogical, but for whatever reason, Ichigo was capable of making her react in ways she had never deemed possible – irrational, delightful, _human_ ways – whether he knew it or not. Her breath seemed to quicken – how could he not hear her heart pounding? – and then...

Then, she was left speechless when Ichigo reached past her and turned off the light. "Get some sleep. Chad, Keigo, Mizuno, Tatsuki and Inoue are coming to help tomorrow. We'll be starting early."

Rukia climbed up onto the futon on the closet shelf and lay there for a moment with the door open. She sighed, and unknowingly drew Ichigo's attention. His brow furrowing, he turned away before she could feel his eyes lingering on her, and heard her shut the door. To be honest, he wasn't quite sure why he was so against the idea of painting the inside of his wardrobe. Okay, that was a lie, but he'd rather think about other things first.

When the closet was uninhabited, Ichigo often caught himself listening for a voice he knew he had no right to expect. A few days ago, she had slipped back through his window, and had fit seamlessly back into the picture she had left a few months before, immediately reclaiming her previous bed. At that time, he had relished in her presence and the vibrancy in her deep, violet eyes – and many things which were best left unsaid threatened to throw themselves off his chest, to freefall and shatter on the ground, leaving an indelible mark between them.

So, why?

The answer was simple. It was hard, sometimes, living with her. It was much harder living without her. She had just become an integral part of this hectic and mostly insane life he now led, and whenever she left, he felt her absence quite clearly. At these times, knowing that she normally slept in his closet was bad enough, but he could pretend for a while that it wasn't the case. Having yet another personal reminder glaring him in the face every morning, and every other time he had to open his wardrobe, that she was no longer there would only serve to drive him crazy. It would scream, "This is _her _space. _She _painted it. It's pomegranate, or whatever Chappy's favourite colour happens to be." He didn't need another concrete, painful reminder when she wasn't around.

As clouds rolled in from the horizon, bringing lightning, thunder and rain, Ichigo ran his fingers through his hair and pulled the blanket over his shoulder as, in his mind, he turned his thoughts over and over. In the end, just as sleep claimed him, all his mind was really circling around was "painting tomorrow" and "Rukia next week" (the latter, he couldn't quite explain when the notion sprung instantly to his mind the next morning).

Ichigo rolled over to face the wardrobe door. Rukia had left the door open – and she was not inside. Even Kon was still sleeping, hidden safely in the corner, muttering something about a "forbidden garden of beauty" in his obviously pleasant dreams. The sky outside was grey and overcast; it was the kind of ambiguous light that made shadows almost completely disappear, no matter what time it happened to be. The clouds in the distance held the promise of rain and storms in the afternoon, confirmed by the tinny voice on the television he could hear downstairs. Why was it playing so loudly, anyway?

There was a knock at his door, and Yuzu burst in, wearing one of his shirts underneath her apron. The sound of the television followed her in, but dropped soon after. He frowned at her.

"Nii-san! Rukia-chan is here – wake up and have breakfast!"

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Rukia?"

Rukia stuck her head past the doorframe and bid him a sweet good morning in her 'school' voice. "Good morning... Kurosaki-kun!"

Although half asleep, his eye twitched, but Yuzu responded for him.

"Why are you being so formal this morning, Rukia-chan?" Even though Rukia hadn't given an answer, Yuzu kept talking. "And that dress will get ruined by the paint! Wear one of nii-san's shirts, I can lend you some shorts..." Yuzu ran off to find some clothes, and Ichigo sighed.

"I don't see why my wardrobe has automatically been converted into spare clothes," he grumbled. "My father has a myriad of shirts that could do with ruining."

Rukia smiled and leaned against his desk. "Because you are a boy, and are expected to have worn clothes from running around and tackling other boys."

Ichigo grunted as he pulled the blanket back over his mattress and ignored her as he left his room.

"Kurosaki-kun," she called playfully, "May I wear your 'speaking is not communication' shirt? I like the colour."

The substitute shinigami paled, turned on one heel and shut the door behind him. "That shirt is not _worn_, as you so artfully put it."

Rukia nodded and crossed her arms. "True," she agreed, "but I like what it says."

"Why did you leave so early?" Ichigo cast his eyes over his clothes and decided that he would rather not see Rukia look like she had just rolled out of bed wearing his shirt when his friends arrived. Either Tatsuki or Mizuiro, for starters, would tactlessly make some kind of comment that would send his father into an apoplectic fit of daydreams (involving his grand children, no doubt).

"Karin said that she was going to look in your wardrobe for a painting shirt as she came upstairs."

Ichigo grunted and pulled out a charcoal shirt from the top shelf and handed it to her. Rukia smiled at both its size and the print – it depicted a mouse, wearing a top hat and boxing gloves, ready to attack a robot, four times its size. It also looked like it was more than a few sizes too small for Ichigo, and wondered how old he had been when it _had_ fit him.

"That was my favourite shirt when I was ten," Ichigo mumbled as he thrust his hands into his pockets. "My father insisted that I keep it, in case it came in handy. As a rag." For some reason, Rukia could imagine Ichigo then fighting Isshin for the shirt. She also wondered what he would have done if Isshin had carried out his threat.

Rukia smiled and Yuzu bounced back into the room with a pair of shorts. "Rukia-chan, I have found shorts!" she announced, and found the pair standing on opposite ends of the room. "Hmm? Wasn't that nii-san's favourite shirt?"

With a noncommittal grunt, Ichigo left the room to have breakfast. "That's strange," Yuzu frowned, but then smiled at Rukia. "You can change in the bathroom, Rukia-chan! Will you be staying with us again? Nii-san didn't say anything about you being home... but it's been so long!"

Rukia smiled at the young girl and accepted the garment with gratitude. "It _is_ good to be back," she said.

That afternoon, Rukia found herself alone in Ichigo's room, staring out the window. The storm had blown in a few minutes ago, and she always found that his room had the best view. Lighting arced across the sky in a blinding flash, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. It had been warm in the morning, the shinigami mused. It would start hailing soon.

The door opened with its telltale creak, and Rukia turned to find Ichigo leaning in the doorway, a small pail of paint in one hand, and two ice cream cones in the other. She crossed her arms and, behind her, raindrops began to throw themselves with furious abandon against the windowpane. He walked into the shadowed room, closing the door behind him.

"There weren't any juice boxes, were there?" Rukia asked him suddenly, as he set the pail and its paintbrush on his sheet-covered desk. He threw her the ice cream and she looked at it for a few moments, clearly perplexed.

"You can't drink a frozen juice box," Ichigo replied as he unwrapped his ice cream and handed it to Rukia. "Yuzu forgot to take them out of the freezer."

Rukia sat down on the edge of the bed, and Ichigo leaned against his desk, and they were silent, both lost in their own thoughts. Rukia had begun absent-mindedly nibbling on the edges of the cone when Ichigo asked, "Are you still mad?"

She turned to face him and arched an eyebrow. "Who said I was displeased?"

Ichigo sighed. She must be, to make him chase her like this. "You were angry last night."

Her tongue ran over the ice cream, and it gave way, melting slowly in her mouth. "You weren't so happy either." She stood and looked out the window once more. It began to hail, white blocks of ice falling from the sky. It wasn't like snow; it was angry and icy... a destructive force that made its wrath known, whereas snow was more subtle, a blanket of suffocating silence.

"You know," Ichigo began, hesitantly. Rukia's eyes snapped to his immediately, for the briefest instant. He was unsure, uncomfortable and struggling with himself. "You can paint the inside of the wardrobe." He left his ice cream on his desk and stood and walked over to her, running a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have been so defensive about it. It's just a closet," he finished, lamely. Rukia turned with a sharp intake of breath, and Ichigo couldn't help smirking.

"What?" she demanded adamantly. "This had better not be your idea of a joke."

"I was serious," he said quietly, stepping closer to her. "It's just that..." he leaned down, and she could feel his breath on her cheek. His eyes were warm, his brow unfurrowed... He leaned closer, his lips parting, and her eyes slid shut. And then... as he licked the tip of her nose, she realised exactly why he had laughed. Her hand flew to cover her face, but Ichigo stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Is this what you wanted, yesterday?"

She blushed and looked away, trying to ignore the strange, but pleasing sensation that he had stirred within her. "Don't be absurd."

He smirked, and she wanted to hit him. "I won't." He leaned in, and she found herself stepping backwards until the edge of the windowsill started to press into her back. His hand slid up her neck and she leaned into his touch, his palm rough against her cheek. Suddenly, Kuchiki Rukia found herself a little bit more than helpless. It wasn't that she'd never been kissed before (but that was, right now, far from the point). It was just that this was something she had been trying her hardest to ignore since she had first realised that she had very, _very_ human feelings for Ichigo. Her eyes shut and she gave a soft sigh, before murmuring, "What do you call this, then?" She felt his arm wrap around her and pull her away from the wall. His hair was grazing her cheek and his lips ghosted over her nose once more, inching towards her cheek.

"Mmm..." He whispered back, "I'm _trying_ to kiss you." He couldn't help but notice her frown, and he smirked when her lips searched blindly for his. He chuckled when she murmured, "And you're doing a damn fine job of it, too," against his skin. Ichigo reached for her hand and plucked the cone from her fingers – how long had she managed to hold on to that thing, anyway? – and, with a quiet sigh, finally captured her lips. Rukia reached up and placed her hands on his chest, fingers splayed and tense as his fingers twined themselves in her silken locks.

For a few, amazing moments, all she could smell and feel and taste was Ichigo. It was something she took for granted when she was in the real world, but just his scent... always made her feel like she was _home_. Ichigo took quiet pleasure in being able to hold her, his fingers in her hair as he drowned in her. It was a scent that haunted his dreams and lingered in his clothes, even after she left – but he had never really imagined that he would be able to hold her like he had wanted for such a long time. As Ichigo pulled away, his eyes were drawn immediately to Rukia's lips once more. He smirked, unable to control his glee, and she gasped when Ichigo swept her up and planted her almost ungracefully on the desk, perilously close to the paint.

"What was that for?" Rukia demanded, as Ichigo began to kiss her neck once more. Her fingers gripped his forearms and he stepped forward, her knees parting so he could move closer. His body was lean and warm against hers, the room had grown hot, and her hair was starting to cling to her neck. Ichigo smirked as he replied between kisses. His hands slid down to her hips and she shifted forward, biting back a moan as she hooked her legs around his waist, her body flush against his.

"You... are _far_ too short."

Her fingers wound into his hair and she tugged sharply to get his attention, bringing his mouth back up to hers. Her lips glanced over his, before travelling to his neck; she'd taken his cue. His pulse was running wild beneath her tongue, and she grinned wickedly. He cursed, beneath his breath, when she bit down on his neck, and growled when he realised that his collar would not be enough to cover the mark she had made. She caressed his cheek gently with her thumb and, with mocking disdain in her eyes, replied, "Perhaps _you_ are far too tall."

There was a deafening crack of thunder that made Rukia jerk unexpectedly into his body, and he hissed as she felt him, hard against her. His lips grazed against her forehead as she laced her arms around his neck. His hands slid beneath her thighs and she gave a small squeak of protest as he picked her up once more, pulling her against his body as one of his arms moved up to brace her back. Her legs tightened around him and her eyes slid shut as the lights in the room fizzled out with a slight pop. Neither decided to comment, too wrapped up in the other to care. Ichigo turned before sitting on the bed, Rukia's weight settling in his lap. She pulled away, and grinned when she realised that he was breathing just as hard and as fast as she was. She was sure the loss of air was making her hypersensitive – his jeans seemed to scrape against her inner thigh, and the feel of his breaths against her skin made her hair stand up. The room's temperature had doubled once again, and she lay her forehead against Ichigo's shoulder, her hands sliding down his chest. Ichigo whispered something into her ear, breathing in the scent of her hair as his fingers intertwined with hers.

"This... would be so much better if you were wearing your uniform," he murmured, before kissing her swollen lips. She growled and pushed him onto the mattress. Ichigo groaned as she rocked her hips against his, and her fingers danced up his stomach, her palms sliding up his skin beneath his shirt. Rukia tensed as she felt his hands return to her back and they slipped down, to massage slow circles into her hips. Her lips were still firmly attached to his, but he could feel her smile as she raked her nails down his chest. He hissed in pain and she chuckled, her voice breathy and low. He couldn't see her face, but he was sure that she would have that infuriatingly smug smile on her face. Was this really the shinigami who was obsessed with drawing Chappy and Friends in his books?

"Maybe next time, if you're lucky," she replied, before running her tongue over the mark she'd made before.

They froze when the door opened, and a single, strong beam of light arced into the room to illuminate the bed. With red cheeks, swollen lips and feverish eyes, the pair turned to face the torch, trying to discern who had come to seal their fate. The torch snapped off and there was a heavy sigh. Rukia's forehead fell forward onto Ichigo's chest as she recognised the sound of Mizuiro's voice.

"I should have known that this was what you'd be up to, Ichigo." They could both hear him smirk as he chuckled. Rukia sat up, and with as much dignity as she could muster, she detached herself from him, and walked out of the room, holding her head high as she ignored Mizuiro's crafty smile. He stopped her, clearing his throat to catch her attention. She turned to face him, an eyebrow arched, and he rubbed the back of his neck, his silhouette illuminated briefly as lightning arced across the sky.

"Kuchiki-san... you have... paint..."

Rukia looked down at her shirt and arms. True enough, there were light paint smudges on her skin, her shorts, on the back of her thighs and, she suspected, on her neck and cheek. Some were vaguely hand shaped, and she blushed. It was far more telling than a love bite – she was going to murder Ichigo for this, although watching him explain the mark on his neck would, perhaps, suffice for now. She stiffened, turned on her heel, and stalked off to find an apron, and some kind of soap.

Mizuiro glanced back at Ichigo, who was sheepishly inspecting his hands. Cream paint ran across his palm and fingers, and he glared at the seemingly innocuous pail of paint on his desk.

"Inoue-san asked me to check on you," he said quietly. Ichigo nodded and sat up as Mizuiro came into the room and sat down on his chair. "Arisawa-san said that it used to be your favourite shirt – she said she remembered a time when you wore nothing else." He spotted the ice cream cone on the plastic covered floor and chuckled. "What happened to your precious image?"

Ichigo stared out the window at the shifting clouds. What, indeed? Who would have thought that painting would have led to this of all things? He smirked. "It's nothing that people don't think already."

Mizuiro grinned, remembering the rumours he had spread. He stood to leave, and turned back at the door. "Oh, and Ichigo?" He rubbed his neck, and Ichigo clapped a hand over the love bite.

The substitute shinigami blushed and looked away as Mizuiro left him with his thoughts. He was going to kill Rukia for this. But then... he tried to remember the last thing Rukia had said before Mizuiro had interrupted them.

There was going to be a _next_ time. She had said so, herself.

Maybe painting the house _did_ have its advantages.

**Author's Note**: I think I have a fixation with Rukia in Ichigo's shirts; she would look both completely adorable and vixen-ish at the same time.


End file.
